


into my bloodstream

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Car Accidents, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mary Dies, Mary Morstan is Not an Assassin, Mary Ships It, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Minor Character Death, Organ Transplantation, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, She's not evil, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: John Watson loses his fiancee Mary to a car accident, and while still recovering, the doctors let him know that Mary was a donor, and there's a person who needs a heart in the hospital. Resentful, John asks not to meet the family, and tries to move on his his life after her.Seven years later, he meets the match.





	into my bloodstream

John knows she’s gone before the doctors’ come to tell him. He’s lying in his hospital bed, sleeping fitfully, body aching from the crash and lack of morphine, when he feels a sudden coldness wash over him. Icy, relentless, and sad, the feeling plagues him for a long while, while the sun shines black and white into the drab hospital room. He stares knowingly at the ceiling, and tries to pretend he’s gone with her. 

He can’t find it in him to cry. He can’t find it in him to do much of anything. 

“We couldn’t save her, Dr. Watson. Her injuries were too great for us.” The doctor, an old, tired looking woman says in a tone that’s supposed to be soothing, like a mother speaking to a child. “I’m so sorry. I truly am.” 

He knows she is. As a doctor himself, he knows how difficult it is to tell someone that a loved one has passed, especially when you feel like you didn’t do enough to save them. 

“Your fiancee was an organ donor, Dr. Watson. We’re running some tests on the compatibility of her proteins, her bloody type, and immune systems, but… if she checks out, there’s actually a match right here in the building that needs a heart. Desperately.” 

That should hurt too. Mary hasn’t been gone more than than an hour, and they already want to take her heart and give it to someone else. Someone else who might die too, without her heart. He wants to be angry, but he can’t feel anything. 

John doesn’t speak for a long time. He feels like he should be angry. He should scream and curse, and tell her she’s a terrible doctor, but he knows very well the position she’s in. He often did the same. He feels like he should be crying. That’s a normal thing to do, right? In this situation, you’re expected to cry. John can’t. Or rather, he doesn’t. He doesn’t really feel anything. 

“I’d like to sleep now.” He finally manages to rasp out, his voice emotionless. 

The tone of the room shifts, like she wants to argue with him, or say something that will ease his pain, but in the end, she doesn’t. She leaves him to his thoughts and exits the room. 

John doesn’t sleep. 

**_________________**

It’s almost a day before she comes back again. John doesn’t want to see her. 

“It’s a match.” She tells him softly. “Mary’s heart can do to him. If you’d like, you can meet the family first. They’d like to express their gratitude and-”

“I don’t want to meet them.” John interrupts, his voice sounding hollow in his ears. “I’d rather just… be done with it. Please.” 

The doctor nods slowly. “I  _ am _ sorry, John.” 

His mouth dries. “Me too.”

**_________________**

Recovery is slow. The solitude of the hospital room turns to loneliness, turns to boredom, and all he can think about is getting out and going… somewhere. 

A lawyer has already been in to speak with him about the car accident. The drunk driver, who ultimately survived, much to John’s disdain, is to be sued for wrongful death, and John gets practically everything. It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Several people come in to see him, familiar, friendly faces that dote on him with flowers and tears and things he’s sick of hearing, but every time the door opens, he’s afraid he’s going to come face to face with the family of the match. He knows he can’t hate them. They just wanted their child to live. 

_ But why do they get to live while I lose everything?  _ He thinks bitterly, hating himself for it. He knows he’s not being fair. 

When the doctor comes back days later, she tells him that the operation was a success. Mary’s heart saved a life. 

John feels nothing. 

He leaves the hospital a week later, and goes home, though the place seems foreign to him. The lilac colored walls, the photographs in frames all over the mantles, the garden, the stupid couch pillows he always hated, everything screams Mary Morstan, and he wants nothing to do with it. He decides he’d rather move. It’s better than staying with a ghost. 

He finds a small run down flat in London that suits his needs. It’s nothing much, but at least he’d be alone. A friend of his, Bill Murray, comes over a few times a week to help him pack things up and help with the funeral plans. The process is exhausting, considering he has to decide to get rid of his and Mary’s things. He keeps some of the necessities, furniture, pots, pans, silverware, towels… But the rest, he decides to leave for the most part. He donates Mary’s clothes, and a lot of their pictures and other useless things from around the house get tossed. It feels like betrayal at first, in an odd way, because he’s getting rid of their things, but he also knows that keeping them would hurt more. 

**_________________**

“Mary was like sunlight.” John murmurs into the microphone, while saddened eyes stared at him from the seats below. “She was bright and brilliant, and her warmth had no comparison. She was beautiful. I loved her more than I can put into words, and I miss her even more than that. She was everything to me.” 

He takes a moment, and gazes back at her lifeless form in the casket. She’s in her favorite dress, the one she wore the night he proposed. The memory makes his heart ache. 

“The only thing I can hope for now, is that one day we will see each other again. And that one day, I can wake up and think about her and it won’t hurt.” 

_________________

Time moves on.

The ache doesn’t fade. 

Sometimes, John will be walking along and see a flash of blonde hair or a bright red coat, and for only a moment, his heart flutters, but then he remembers where he is, and the fluttering turns to pain. 

He goes to work. He eats. He sometimes goes to the pub with the few friends he has left. His old limp comes back again, and each time he stumbles, he glares at the cane in his hand, and tries not to think of soothing, encouraging words that saved him the first time around. 

Time moves on. 

John Watson does not. 

**_________________**

**-Seven Years Later-**

“So, where are you living now? Same old place?” Mike Stamford asks one day over coffee. 

John clenches his shaking hand. “Yeah. It’s small, but it’s what I need. I can’t live in the city too much longer, though. You can’t really afford London on an army pension.” 

Mike doesn’t mention the extra money from the wrongful death suit, and John is grateful for it. Instead, he shrugs. “I don’t know, you could get a flat share or something.” 

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” He almost scoffs. 

Mike answers with a hearty laugh. “You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today.” 

“Who was the first?” 

**_________________**

Sherlock Holmes is like fire, and lightning, and storms, complete with a silver tongue and sharp wit, and like a siren, he pulls John into his world of solving crimes, and like an addict, John has no problem running alongside him. John Watson is in love the moment Sherlock bats his beautiful eyelashes and asks him to dinner after their first case. 

They dance around each other for months. It starts subtly at first, with the flirting and the quick jabs, and John quickly realizes that Sherlock isn’t going to make the first move. He figures out pretty early on that Sherlock has never really felt like this before, so he’s going to let John do all of the work. 

Once he figures that out, he works it to his advantage. 

They begin to touch each other more, hands brushing when a cup of tea is passed, or in the kitchen when John cooks and Sherlock pretends not to watch. On cases, it’s even more noticeable to everyone else. John will put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder when they’re leaning down to examine something, or when Sherlock holds the caution tape up for John to duck under, he’ll also put his hand on John’s arm to help. On the cab rides home, sometimes, after having not slept for days, Sherlock will fall asleep on John’s shoulder. Whether he means to or not, John doesn’t know, but he definitely doesn’t mind. 

“I think I love him.” He tells Mike Stamford one night at the pub. He’s had a couple drinks already, and it’s the most free he’s ever felt. 

Mike grins like the smug bastard he is. “That’s good, John. You need this.” 

John knows he’s right, but he still feels a twinge of guilt every time he thinks about it. “I still miss Mary, but with Sherlock, it’s easier. Part of me likes to believe that wherever she is, she sent him to me, knowing I’d love him more than anything, but it also feels like I’m being unfaithful.” 

“You aren’t being unfaithful, John Watson. You loved Mary when she was alive, and she wouldn’t have wanted you to be hung up on her now. You’ve got your whole life to live, and you should be able to spend it with someone you love. She would want you to be happy. Sherlock makes you happy, doesn’t he?” 

John thinks of his enigmatic detective back home, and smiles. “God, yes he does.” 

“Then get on with it, mate.” 

**_________________**

He doesn’t, not right away. He doesn’t want to rush anything, and potentially scare Sherlock away. He doesn’t admit to anything, but he doesn’t hide his affection at all. Everything remains relatively subtle, until the night of the pool. 

They return to Baker street, and Sherlock is unusually tense. John knows it’s the aftermath of the fact that for a good moment, he thought John was going to die. He reaches over and rests his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, the most intimate touch they’ve ever shared. 

Sherlock glances over at him, looking fragile and lost, and it makes John’s heart in a good way. “I’m okay.” He whispers.  _ “We’re  _ okay.” 

“Are we?” Sherlock asks. 

“Always.” John moves his hand to clutch the detective’s own, making his eyes widen. It’s a bold move, one he hasn’t been brave enough to make before this moment, but things are different now. 

The cab pulls up to Baker Street, and the two men aren’t even inside the door of their flat before John decides to make and even braver move. He grasps the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff, brings the detective down to his height, and kisses him. 

Sherlock stays frozen for a moment, John can practically hear the gears in his brilliant brain whirring and spinning out of control as he tries to comprehend what’s going on. It’s almost endearing, the effect he clearly has on the detective. He suppresses the urge to giggle, and instead he pulls away, and cradles Sherlock’s face in his hand. “You alright?” He whispers.

Sherlock’s eyes are blown open wide, his lips slightly parted, and John wants already wants to kiss him again. “Wh-why did you do that?” He stutters. 

“Bit not good?” 

“No! No, I just… I didn’t, I mean, I don’t know, I just-” 

The doctor laughs breathlessly. “My,  _ my,  _ Sherlock Holmes, have I made you inarticulate?” 

He doesn’t have a response for that, other than a deep blush that dusts over his lovely cheekbones. 

Instead of teasing him further, John curls his fingers around Sherlock’s neck, and pulls him in for another, less bruising kiss, before pressing their foreheads together. “Stop thinking so much.” He almost orders. 

“I don’t know how to turn it off.” Sherlock admits shakily. “I’m afraid that I’m dreaming.” He holds up his hand, and they both watch as his fingers tremble almost violently. “Look at me, John, I’m losing it. I don’t know what to  _ do.”  _

John feels a tug at his heartstrings, because  _ God,  _ does he love this man. Slowly, as not to frighten him, he shrugs the Belstaff off of the man’s shoulders and lets it tumble softly to the floor. The detective will surely complain about it later, but it’s the least of John’s concerns right now. He draws him closer, and runs his hands up Sherlock’s flank, earning a shuddering breath in response. “Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want this?” 

_ “Yes.”  _

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel-” 

“Yes, John, for God’s sake,  _ please.”  _

The doctor laughs at the demanding tone, but quickly obliges. He shoves the detective up against their front door, and kisses him hard enough to take his breath away. They practically melt into each other, and John cherishes every single gasp and shuddering moan that break from Sherlock’s lips. 

John Watson is a soldier. He’s seen beautiful, terrible things, and as a doctor, he’s seen miracles, he’s seen anger, and hatred, he’s seen things that would have made a normal man lose his composure, but this? This moment, being here with Sherlock Holmes, this is more trying on his self control than anything else in the world. He wants nothing more than to take this beautiful man to bed, ravish him, mark him, ruin him completely for anybody else, and that should terrify him, feeling so intensely for another person, but it doesn’t. Quite the opposite, actually. 

“John.” Sherlock rasps. “Please.” 

“I’m here, love.” He slots his knee in between Sherlock’s thighs, pinning him to the wall, and nips gently at his neck. 

_ “John.” _ He actually squeaks. 

It’s then that John can actually feel how painfully hard Sherlock is, and that puts an end to that self control he’s tried so hard to hold onto. 

A guttural noise rumbles up from John’s chest, and he pulls away from the detective. “What do you want?” He growls, grinding against Sherlock, making him whimper. 

“You. Always you.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, John, please. Take me to bed.” 

John doesn’t have to be told twice. 

In one swift movement, he sweeps the detective off of his feet and carries him bridal style through the house, and into Sherlock’s bedroom where he all but throws him down, and begins unbuckling his belt. 

Sherlock laughs breathlessly. “You certainly enjoy showing off your strength.” 

“You didn’t seem to mind being manhandled.” 

“I most definitely don’t.” 

John tries not the rip any of Sherlock’s clothing as he strips him, but he admittedly doesn’t care. He’ll buy him a whole new wardrobe if it’ll make him happy. Carefully, he crawls onto the bed and pulls Sherlock in for another kiss while he unbuttons his silk shirt and runs his hands on the bare skin of his chest. “God, you’re  _ beautiful.”  _

Sherlock whines at the praise. “John, don’t stop, please.” 

“I won’t, love.” He whispers, running his hands over skin again, this time finding scar tissue that shouldn’t be there. He looks down and sees a large vertical scar down the center of his lover’s chest, long since healed and slightly faded. It seems strange, having such a scar on such an angelic body. His perfect, alabaster body was at one point cut open and put back together again, and it seems so strange, but he’s still so, so beautiful. Stunning, even. 

“I thought I asked you not to stop.” 

John laughs. “Sorry, love. I was just…” He trails off, running his fingertips over the scar again. “What’s this from?” 

Sherlock glances down at the scar, and almost groans. “John, I promise you, I’ll tell you about every single scar on my body, but please, will you just  _ fuck me  _ already?” 

John laughs again, louder this time, and shows off his strength again by flipping them so that Sherlock is straddling him. “Demanding little thing.” 

**_________________**

The sex is utterly mind blowing. Not that John expected anything less, but it seems almost ethereal, being with Sherlock this way. After all this time, finally being able to cradle the detective in his arms, in a shared bed, basking in the afterglow of their evening together. 

“You make the most perfect noises, you know that?” John tells him. 

Sherlock chuckles quietly, and snuggles his head onto the doctor’s chest. “You’re a flatterer.” 

“Quite right, too.” He replies, and suddenly can’t hold it in anymore. “I love you, you know.” It’s the easiest thing he’s ever said. 

“Took you long enough.” Comes the detective’s cheeky reply.

John growls playfully at him. “Oh, yeah?” He takes one of the pillows and smacks him over the head with it. 

Sherlock cries out and the two erupt into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He tries. “I love you too.” 

“You better.” 

A comfortable silence falls over them, and John realizes that he is, in this moment, as happy as it is possible to be. The happiest he’s been in years. He never wants to be without this. 

“I was born with a weak heart.” Sherlock says quietly, and it takes John a moment to realize what he’s talking about. “They didn’t think I’d live very long, but I was strong. I had a transplant a few years ago. That’s what the scar is from.” 

That strikes a chord, and makes his heart clench in a painful way.  _ There’s no way,  _ John thinks,  _ it’s too crazy. Thousands of people get heart transplants in a year, it’s not an abnormal thing.  _ Though, deep down, he knows that  __ He swallows hard. “You were very lucky.” 

Sherlock, obviously not noticing the edge in his voice, nods. “I was very grateful to the donor and the family, though I never got to meet them.” 

He’s beginning to sweat now, his heart is already pounding. “Why not?” 

“They didn’t want to meet me.” He explains. “I understand why, but I still would have liked to thank Mr. Morstan.” 

_ Oh, god.  _ John’s heart skips, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the room from spinning.  _ This can’t be real, this can’t be real.  _

“John?” Sherlock sounds concerned. “Are you alright?” 

“It’s not Morstan.” 

Confused, Sherlock sits up, and stares down at his lover with narrowed eyes. “What are you talking about?” 

John breathes out heavily, and sits up too. “It wasn’t Morstan. It was Watson.” 

“John, I don’t-”

“Mary Morstan was my fiancée. The person you didn’t meet was me.” 

Realization seems to hit the detective like a brick, because he immediately backs away toward the other side of the bed, and seems to hold his breath. There’s a long, pregnant pause. “John, I-” 

“Don’t.” The doctor rasps. “Please, just… don’t.” 

Suddenly, the room seems incredibly tight, and he can hear his own breathing become gasping and he’s on the verge of a panic attack, he  _ knows  _ it. His flight instinct kicks into overdrive, and he has to run. He jumps from the bed, and starts getting dressed, carefully avoiding eye contact. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demands, sounding small and anxious. 

“I need some air.” He shoots back as he grabs his keys and shuts the door behind him. In the back of his mind, he knows he should have said something more, something to sooth Sherlock, but the only thing on his mind is getting away. 

**_________________**

John finds himself at a park not far from Baker street, where the crisp night air nips at his arms and face as he trudges through the dampened grass. He knows he would look odd to anyone passing by; stomping through a park with an intense, yet desperate expression clouding his eyes.

He realizes soon enough that he’s completely out of breath, and finds solace on a park bench near a gently trickling river. For quite a while, he says nothing. He just tries to process the last hour without losing his mind. 

“I don’t know what to do.” He says aloud, his voice scratchy. “What are the odds, y’know? I never...  I just don’t know what to  _ do.”  _

“You always did seem to be unreasonably lucky.” Mary’s voice comes from behind, as she rounds the bench. 

John looks up at her beautiful, young face. “You call this lucky?” He asks. 

The woman offers him a small smile, and shrugs. “Part of you does.” She sits down besides him, and stares off into the river. 

John feels like he shouldn’t be this calm about seeing Mary, though being around Sherlock for so long, his small mind palace has become easier to access. He knows that he’d look mad to anyone else; talking to himself on a park bench, but he doesn’t actually care. Mary only comes to him when he needs her. 

He braces his elbows on his knees, and holds his hands in front of his lips like he’s praying. “I don’t know what to do about this, Mary.” He repeats. 

“What do you want to do?” 

“I want to love him.” 

“But?” 

“Can I still?” 

Mary looks almost startled. “Why not?” 

John gives her a incredulous look. “He’s got your heart, Mary. The heart they took from you when you...  I mean, that just seems… It must be wrong, right?” 

“What makes it wrong?” 

“I don’t know. It just…  _ is.”  _

Mary chuckles at him. “You don’t actually think your feelings are wrong. You just feel like they should be.” 

“But, I don’t know how to feel. He has your heart. Out of everyone in the entire city of London, I found him, and now it feels… wrong. Like I’m cheating.” 

“John, you loved him before you knew. You loved him right away.” 

He paused. “But it’s different.” 

“No it isn’t.” She replies. “John, the heart is an organ meant for keeping you alive. You didn’t fall in love with him because of his internal organs, you feel in love with him because he’s Sherlock Holmes. He’s the man who found you, saved your life, and fixed you up. That’s what you fell in love with.” 

“But, I still lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me to save him, though, John. I was already gone.” 

His heart thudded against his ribcage. He knows she doesn’t mean to hurt him, but she’s right. Accepting that Mary’s death wasn’t planned by the universe, and just a terrible event that nothing could have prevented had been harder than anything else in the world. She didn’t have to die to save Sherlock’s life, but she did save him in the end. 

“You deserve to move on, John.” She says, lying her hand over top of his. “You’ve been so lonely for so long, and now you have a chance to be happy again. Think of this as just a connection you could never feel with anyone else. Something old, something new.” 

_ Something old, something new.  _

He lets out a heavy breath. “You’re right, Mary. I can’t keep living like this. I have the chance to love and be loved by someone who understands me, just as I understand him. That man who would have been there for you, is the man I want to be for him.” 

Mary gives him a soft, yet dazzling smile. “Well then, John Watson, get the hell on with it.” 

And with that, John blinks, and he’s alone. 

He doesn’t spare a moment. He doesn’t even make time for a cab. John pivots on his heel, and begins to run. 

**_________________**

The door of 221B swings open with a loud bang against the wall as John tramples up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. “Sherlock!” He yells as he throws the door open. 

The detective, who had been sitting on the sofa, is now up and alert, like he’s not entirely sure of John at the moment. “John?” He says, very quietly. 

John’s heart swells at the sight of him, and he can’t help himself. He stalks forward, ignoring the way Sherlock steps back apprehensively, and their bodies collide so hard that they both fall against the floor in a heap. 

“John.” Sherlock grunts. “A little warning would have been nice.” He doesn’t sounds upset at all. 

The doctor laughs breathlessly as he gently rubs at his shoulder that hit the floor and tries to sit up. “Sorry, that wasn’t exactly the approach I was going for. You alright, love?” He asks, reaching to rest his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock curls into the touch. “I’m fine. Are you?” 

John’s smart enough to know he’s not asking about the fall. “I am now. I just had to… sort things out on my own.” 

Sherlock presses his lips together. “John… I’m sorry. I should have known beforehand, though I’m quite sure Mycroft knew, but didn’t say.” 

“He probably wanted me to figure it out on my own. It was probably best that way anyway.”

“I’m still sorry. It should have occurred to me, but you never talked about Mary, and I never asked because I thought it was too painful, and I-”

“Sherlock, it’s fine. It really is.” 

“Is it?” 

John tries to smile. “Yes, it is. Know why? Because I would have loved you anyway. I loved you before I knew, and I still love you now. I’m so, so happy I met you, and I’m so happy you’re alive. I’m so happy that my Mary could save your life, and I’m so happy I get to share that life with you.” 

“I’m happy too.” Sherlock chokes, his eyes filling with tears. “I love you, John.” 

“Took you long enough.” He pulls the detective into his arms again, and lifts him off of the floor. “It’s late, Mr. Holmes, I suggest, as your doctor, that you get some rest.” 

Sherlock laughs. “Yes, of course, doctor.”

John carries him into their bedroom, and deposits him on the bed with as much grace as he did before, making him laugh again. It’s become John’s favorite sound. 

When he goes to close the door, he sees Mary standing at the end of the hall, against the fireplace, and he mouths a quiet  _ thank you  _ at her.

Mary smiles at him one last time, then disappears, and John knows that this is the last time they see each other. 

After a moment, John turns and takes in the sight of Sherlock Holmes, the man he loves, sprawled out in the bed with a adoring gaze in his eyes. He doesn’t look away. 


End file.
